


The Fracturing of Anastasia Chen

by Dreamcatcher37



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Gen, Mental Illness, ever heard of Elisa Lam?, written on a cell phone forgive me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 15:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10596534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamcatcher37/pseuds/Dreamcatcher37
Summary: Before the end of the world, the Mercado was the center of another paranormal event: the disappearance of Anastasia Chen. Caught on camera, her video went viral, fading from memory before the Ghostbusters even met. What happened to Anastasia Chen? (Sort of biographical prequel to a bigger fic, coming soon.)





	

 

 

 

The Fracturing of Anastasia Chen

The chemical imbalance known as schizophrenia doesn't have a direct link to clairvoyance. Studies since the 80s (the Star Gate projects, MK Ultra, Cambridge, S. Wesson) seeking some link between psychiatric disorders and clairvoyance have come up dry. Psychic ability comes from something more than abnormal brain chemistry. But hallucinations don't come from a vacuum. Modern psychiatry says symptoms are inspired by real life. A drink that tastes a little off becomes an attempt to poison the drinker, emotional distress sets off an episode, the subtle hum of a dark TV means there's spyware hidden in the casing. Now, Dr. Martinez's 1989 publication states that 90% of our encounters with the supernatural go unnoticed. Most evidence of paranormal entities is below the threshold of normal human attention. (The thalamus filters out 90% of sensory information.) An odd temperature drop or the feeling of being watched is, normally, brushed off. Perhaps it's this abnormality that lets those on the schizo spectrum sense more. Strong emotions from centuries ago leeching into a particular person's head lead to sudden dissociation. The smell of ionization in the air becomes toxic gas being pumped in. Creatures that they saw in their childhood return to torment them as adults. Perhaps it's all just coincidence. But perhaps...the anecdotal evidence points to something more.

.

Age 18: The first symptoms appear. Slowly. Her sister notices she has trouble thinking clearly, but she says she's not on drugs. A friend brings up she wasn't as fun during their hangout as usual. She brushes these off and tries to do better. She's graduating soon. Her sister calls her "jie jie". Her closest friends call her Nán.

Age 19: Her father dies suddenly of a heart attack.

Age 20: Her symptoms have grown too severe and too scary to ignore. Her school counsellor refers her to the school psychiatrist, who diagnoses her and first prescribes her medicine. The word 'schizophrenia' sounds like a death knell. For weeks she can't bring herself to say it. But with a few tries with different med combinations, her symptoms become manageable. She continues school.

Age 22: When her medicine doesn't keep her symptoms at bay, Nán's learned ways around them. Difficult problems keep her mind together. She uses her insomnia to keep up with course work. A few friends know her condition and are sympathetic (if not understanding). She learns chess from a boy down her hall. She's had a few relationships. The thorazine makes her feel mentally numb, a side effect she's determined to just live with. Her family knows about her diagnosis—her mother doesn't believe it.

Age 24: Almost through her second to last year in school, Nán's studying for finals and finishing up papers, when it slips her mind to take her meds. Hours after her last dose wears off, it feels like she's woken up after a long time half dead. Even if she wanted to take her next dose, she couldn't. Her symptoms quickly reappear. The morning of finals comes and she's a no-show. Same with her afternoon finals. The next afternoon an RA and a small team of staff members break into her dorm. Nán hadn't slept in two days. Her room had been rearranged and she herself was in a bad state-shirtless and in what psychologists call a psychotic break. More a danger to herself than others, she was kept in her dorm while her brain stabilized itself. Staff called it a nervous breakdown. Finals couldn't be rescheduled or retaken. Her mother was contacted about the failed courses and quickly decided her daughter wouldn't be allowed back at home. Amy had no say in the matter. At the end of the semester, Nán was turned out with nowhere to go.

.

? weeks/months/years later: A Chinese woman appears in autumn-painted Bryant Park, enough of a regular to occupy a chess table and play strangers. She's friendly (despite her twitchiness and obvious exhaustion). The games keep her focused on reality. She's learned survival tips from others in her position—to keep her bag strapped to her, to simply walk casually into hotels and fitness clubs when she needs rest or a shower. She's been discovered by nearly every Marriott and Hampton in the area. Winter's closing in fast. One of her regular opponents (she remembers him—odd, apocalyptic, with an aggressive strategy and a wardrobe even worse than her grandmother's) stops by for a game. Dragonflies—acid green things that eat flesh—make an appearance once again. (Nán thinks it's coincidence). She brushes one away from the board as nonchalantly as possible. The game progresses. Their conversation takes on a familiar rhythm; it's Nán that does most of the talking. Her opponent never says much more than a few words. Like he thinks she's too dull to waste breath on. Until she remarks about the weather getting colder.

He leans forward—like they're sharing an inside joke—and assures her, "I imagine when the end of the world comes, the homeless and destitute will go quickly."

Like that'd be a mercy. Nán feels like she's been slapped. The stranger calmly moves his knight and sits back, waiting for her answer. The Chinese woman keeps her face straight and politely says, "Sounds fabulous...But I'm just a little late on rent, that's all." She moves a pawn and once again tries to forget the indignity of her position.

"And you're here, day after day, suffering with the other wastrels...Why?"

"I'm just. A little late. On rent."

"Is the shelter on eleventh closed?"

(She takes a while to reply, staring down at the board, and he suspects he's getting to the root of her problem.)

"...Too many things that go bump in the night." Is her soft answer. He can barely open his mouth before she rudely shoves the pieces off the board-they clatter to the concrete-and she's talking. Or, more babbling. There's words like _acid_ and _insects_ and _glowing_ in there. Is that another language, too? She's picked up a chip of concrete bench and starts scratching at the board. Her opponent doesn't stop her. Pretty soon she's made a (fairly straight) diagonal line through the squares. She points to a spot along it and says "eleventh." It takes him an embarrassingly long time (thirty seconds) to get what she means.

The board is a map of New York's gridded streets, and that line runs right through the shelter.

Nán doesn't remember what happens after that. She's alone at the table until day turns to night.

.

?, midnight: A light shines harshly in Nán's face. She blinks sleepily and raises a hand to block the worst of it; she can't see who's disturbing her. Whoever it is doesn't speak. Nán's apprehensive and a little peeved. When she demands to know who's bothering her (she isn't breaking any laws), a familiar voice asks what she's doing there. (It's a good question. She's still sitting at a chess table.) She sighs as the light is lowered from her face—"God, it's you. Don't do that!" Her chess partner repeats the question and she sizes him up. He could be there to mock her—or worse.

"...I'm just a little late on rent." She replies in an even and insistent voice. The stranger didn't believe her. (But he wondered if she believed herself.) "Come on." He walked away but paused, ushering her forward with his flashlight.

"Let's go, the hour is late."

She doesn't believe what she's hearing—what, does he plan on luring her into an alley and stealing her kidneys? Does he think that'll work? Then it clicks for her.

"Ohhh...IIIII think you got the wrong impression. I can't help you." At her chess partner's confused look, she takes pity on him. "There's some call girls on 38th...they're really nice..."

It's a full minute of embarrassed stammering before he can explain himself. He works at a hotel he can get her into for the night. Nán, she honestly doesn't know what to do. On the one hand, she's pretty sure he's a sociopath. (He has the sideburns.) She isn't ready to pay his price for a night of safety. Men always, always demand favors for basic human kindness.

On the other hand...She's tired. Starved. And it's 40 degrees and dropping. She doesn't have much of a choice.

Anastasia Nántai Chen gathers her stuff and follows.

.

Somewhere on West 43rd: "If you're going to commit a felony for me, you should at least know my name."

"Should I?"

"Yes. Nánt—I mean, Anastasia. Chen."

"...North. Rowan North."

"Awesome."

.

2 AM: To Nán's surprise, they head right to the busiest part of the city that never sleeps—Times Square. She stops for a second to stare up at the gilded skyscraper.

"When you said you worked at a hotel, I thought you meant...the Hollywood Tower of Terror. Or something." North shoots her a look. He doesn't think that's funny. Nán is still marveling as she's ushered through a back-alley exit.

The service hallways and maintenance shafts of the Mercado are in stark contrast to the rest of the luxurious hotel. They're dank liminal spaces, all grey concrete and flickering fluorescents, and all abandoned after the evening shift. Getting through any of the doors down there requires a staff card. Trying to force any of the locks sets off an alarm. That fact made the Mercado confident in its security. So confident, it's easy to skirt cameras and situate Nán in a twentieth-floor room.

It's the most luxurious place she's ever seen; the first thing Nán does is take her shoes off at the door and move about the room, in a trance.

Rowan North's intentions weren't entirely...pure. He had no love for the hotel or its bureaucratic management. It'd be no small satisfaction to look his superiors in the face and pretend all was well—while an invalid desecrated the pristine rooms.

"Look at the view," are the first words she speaks, gazing through the thick curtains at the lighted square. North stays in the shadows just behind her, only looking down at the street, wondering (not for the first time) what a fall to the pavement would be like.

.

9 AM: A direct line between the hotel rooms and a particular phone in the staff's quarters is set up. From any empty room, one could pick up the phone on the night table, dial 280, bypass the main desk, and get North's extension. With a mouth full of complimentary breakfast (and a pretty fuzzy brain), Nán calls her chess partner to thank him. He doesn't say anything—just hangs up at the end. Nán will learn not to take offense to this. It's just North. If any of the front desk staff notice lines are inexplicably busy, they don't pay it any mind. Phantom calls are common. It's the Mercado, after all.

.

4 PM: There's no sign of a young woman in the twentieth-floor room. It's been re-turned-over, done by two people so well the maids won't notice a thing. Nán learns to forge a clean room herself. Her new room is a two-bed on the fourteenth floor. And so it goes.

.

Days later: Nán feels more rested than she's felt in weeks. All her clothes had been washed in the shower and she's stolen, like, a thousand of the complimentary shampoo bottles. With a little bit of dread in the pit of her stomach, and an important question on her tongue, she phones the janitor.

"How—...how long am I welcome to stay here?"

She doesn't waste time with many pleasantries. The world seems so tense, ready to shatter.

"As long as it takes, Miss Chen."

Oh, thank God. "You don't have to call me 'miss', I'm not really a guest here…"

"As you wish, Miss Chen."

She sighs through her nose, but decides to drop it. The only social activity he's had in years was with the hotel's guests. Nán could put up with that oddity then.

She could put up with a lot of oddities, if it meant she had shelter from the cold.

.

?: One can only do so much cooped up in a hotel room. She's learned where the cameras are. Through the less-used hallways, she cautiously starts to explore. The empty ballrooms on the second floor have great echoes. (If she looks closely at the wallpaper, she'd notice the fireflies crawling there, leaving lines of neon orange napalm. She chooses not to notice.)

She sits and works problems on old newspapers in the lobby. None of the staff seem to like her old chess partner. Turns out he's a janitor, the lowest on the social order. Not middle management like she assumed. Bummer.

One midnight finds her-she doesn't really know how she got there-in the basement. Oh, the basement gives her such a bad vibe. It might be the spiderwebs she doesn't always see, feeling like fingers brushing against her. It might be an unnatural humming in the walls. She knows it's superstition...but that doesn't mean she has to like that dark place.

.

Days later: Winter's come on, full force. Nán takes a walk through the square. Of course, every store's decked out for Christmas. The chemist finds a pay phone and calls her sister. It's been a couple weeks since Amy has heard from her jie jie—she's nearly frantic. Nán reassures her she's okay. "You won't believe this—I'm staying at that hotel Baba loved, that really old one." Amy isn't buying it. With some prodding, Nán admits she's got a guy on the inside: "Sad, pale, that kind of white boy Mama told us to watch out for...You know, I'd say he strangles hookers, but I don't think he's ever touched a woman."

Amy doesn't think it's so funny.

"Mèi mèi, it was a joke! I'm okay!" Nán insisted. "He's harmless, I'm all right..."

"When are you coming home? Mom'll forgive you, just come home!" Amy begs.

"When they invent a pill for that mental filter I don't have." Nán answers slowly. Come crawling back to her family? She couldn't do that, she's still sick. She can't do that...

She makes her excuses and hangs up. Not for the first time, she worries what will happen if Amy's mind starts fracturing, too.

.

?: Nán can feel it—always a buzzing at the back of her brain. Dissociation. It's numbing and terrifying, all at once. A state where the whole world is a harsh foreign landscape. And the feeling is creeping closer. She tries to write it off as a minor bad spell. She's gotten through those before. She's gotten through them…

Something in the regular pattern of the walls and the carpets is setting her mind on fire. The lighting all through the hotel is a low amber. (There is no day or night in the old halls.) It's supposed to be "homey", she figures. After a while it just seems...oppressive. Like she's lost in some desert with the heat draining the life from her. She's pretty sure the Mercado is where Stephen King wrote 1408. Pretty sure.

North is no help, of course. The chemist is pretty sure he _loves_ how creepy the place is. White people.

.

?: Anastasia Nántai Chen is like a ghost. The only thing Mercado patrons see of her is a flicker of long hair disappearing around a corner, or a bobby pin under the dresser in a cleaned room, or objects on tables mysteriously rearranged when the room's been vacant for days.

Of course, it isn't easy keeping someone—especially a disorganized schizophrenic—hidden. (The reason she'd been found out in so many hotels was her composure always slipped. Three days was her maximum stay.) There were near-misses and guest complaints of strange laughter. The hotel has a protocol for strange activity—when they need someone to check out something weird, they send Rowan North.

In the words of the staff supervisor, "Guy loves that spooky shit."

At the end of the day, all the effort and exhaustion wasn't for charity (or even a personal interest, he'd tell himself). By that point in his life Rowan North cared only about ending the world. And the schizophrenic woman (known only briefly in his notes as "the invalid"—a thing overlooked by the agents who'd later seize his work) would play a part in it.

If she should get out of hand, should have no value as a scientific instrument, or she should get caught in the hotel, well, she's crazy, isn't she? No one would believe her.

North's (impulsive) decision was 30% a middle finger to the hotel's bullying management, and 70% scientific necessity. The fuss will be worth it, when his work is done…

He's conducting an experiment as revolutionary as Henry Cavendish weighing the world.

.

Days later: The universe gives them no choice—for a few grey hours on a Sunday evening, when he isn't on call, Nán has to hide out in North's dingy little room. There are rules—of course.

Don't move anything. Don't mess with the jumble of wires and metal on every surface. Don't go through the books—especially not Ghosts from our Past. Do not. Touch. Anything.

"Awesome, can-do." Nán says, as she sets about touching everything.

She thought it was a crowded place. It was kind of obvious he'd never had...well, anyone over. Books cluttered shelves and the nightstand (things like "Theory of Fields", self-help, self-help, "The Standard Model and Beyond", "NorthEastern Ley Lines" and "Quantum Suicide"). Pictures, diagrams, and equations were taped everywhere; there was barely any wall showing. Various degrees hung in frames. The whole place had a...real depressing feel. North ropes her into a chess game (with a small plastic set) before she has a chance to go through his drawers.

She's curled around herself in a spare computer chair. He's working through pages of data, that same damned book open in front of him. (Nán wonders if he sleeps with it under his pillow.) At the same time, she's squinting at "String Theory for Beginners", determined to wade her way through the most awkward chess game ever. Nán starts the conversation light and easy—"I didn't know you were so educated."

"There are a lot of things nobody knows about me."

Nán resists the urge to roll her eyes.

"Okay, Percy Shelley...I have to know, why are you here? Instead of—out there—you know, condescending at undergrads?"

North shot her a look.

"Just a question."

"...That, is a long and tragic story. But if you MUST know—"

"I don't, never mind."

"—My field of study isn't exactly...conventional."

"...Anime waifus not a college major?" Nán manages to filter into Mandarin.

"I've been laughed out of every university in the state."

"I...don't know why that'd be..." Nán said, gazing at the work lining the walls. "Unless you're studying Einstein-Rosen bridges, or string theory..."

"Ghosts."

North was looking right at her—a grey gaze so intense, the chemist felt like she was under a microscope. He studied her every reaction as he slowly said, "Specters. Vapors. Metaphysical manifestations on our plane of existence."

"Sounds...yôuqù—interesting."

"Do you believe?"

It took a long time for Nán to line up the right words (in the right language). "I can't, not now. You must've noticed...I'm schizophrenic." (Saying those words always felt like taking a leap of faith off a cliff.) "I don't see things that aren't there. I've been lucky so far. Don't want to give my brain any more nightmare fuel...if that makes sense."

"It does." answers North softly. He's still studying her. Creepy. And rude.

"I ran out of thorazine last month...You know the med struggle." She glances down at his gut. "Risperdal, right?"

"...Excuse me?"

"Never mind." Nán takes her turn on the chess board and changes the subject. "You study ghosts? You're in the wrong room. Check out the basement. Under the lobby. Really...buzzy. You won't be disappointed there."

"The basement, you say?" North counters her pawn's advance. "...Excellent."

.

Days later: God knows why, but the next time Nán has to hide out in her chess partner's room, it's inexplicably moved to the basement. The old electrician's offices, to be exact. (Since the hotel contracted their repairmen—or just made North deal with problems—the large room sat unused.) The space is like a more depressing version of Freddy Krueger's murder chamber. The only reason she can fathom why North would move down there is that white people love haunted shit. The _only_ reason.

.

Days later: It only gets worse for Nán. On a particular Wednesday, she's informed they're going out. No question, no suggestion. And no telling where they're going.

"It's a surprise." is all North will say. Concerning.

But staring at the same walls all day makes Nán a dull girl; she's going a little stir-crazy, no joke intended. And she wants to stay in North's favor. She goes along with it.

They leave the hotel different ways to avoid suspicion, and meet up on the corner of 40th and Broadway. Nán's biding her time in the October cold, leaning on a lamppost, watching crowds ebb around her, and—

"Miss Chen."

Someone's behind her.

Nán lets loose a string of curses in Mandarin, to which North only stands there and smiles. Apparently he thinks sneaking up on people is a game. He's lucky Nán didn't deck him.

"What took you so long? Couldn't pick out an outfit?" he asks. Like an ass.

After a few deep breaths, she replies, "Yeah. Outfits, that was it." She isn't going to tell him the truth—that her brain wouldn't hold on to or order out the most simple of tasks. Executive dysfunction. She is NOT going to have _that_ conversation with a dude who thinks his scientific knowledge encompasses _everything_ in the universe.

Their destination is on the upper west side, and it isn't what Nán expected at all. It's an old mansion museum. She recognizes it from a brochure her chess partner was carrying in his messenger bag a few times they met in Bryant Park. (She stole a look inside that bag on the subway, and was surprised to find enough homemade devices to get North tackled by security in an airport. Some kinds of data-gathering tech. And Ghosts from our Past. Of course.) The tour guide caught sight of them in the parlor, waiting with the next tour group. When the tall guy gave them a weird look and darted his eyes away, Nán assumed it was her—until she noticed he was totally avoiding North.

With some prodding she finds out North had visited the Aldridge Mansion an un-subtle 16 times. It was so obvious what was going on. The tall guy (Garrett?)'s weird looks suddenly make sense. The entertainment value of that particular misunderstanding is too sweet for Nán to pass up, and Rowan "Genius" North just _doesn't get it_. So when the tour's getting under way, and North is still calibrating a device in his bag, Nán leans over and whispers, "I'd climb him like a tree—wouldn't you?"

North's look of confusion and distress was too good. Nán was giggling behind her hand for the first five minutes of the tour.

It was a dry, fact-filled endeavor. As the chemist expected. She has no head for history. The house was sufficiently creepy—between the crawling feelings she was getting along her skin, and her fascination with the tour guide's eyes (and sometimes butt), she was not paying attention.

Then the candlestick fell over.

Nán was staring at the basement door (was that the flickering of insectoid wings on the other side? She didn't like that door, her skin was crawling—) when it happened.

"Did you see that? Did you see that?!" she hisses at her companion, grabbing his sleeve and shaking him. Somehow—somehow!—he's casually checking a readout in his pocket. While an actual ghost is bitch-slapping candlesticks off bidets. Unbelievable!

The rest of the tour doesn't last long, and the group's ushered back to the parlor-slash-gift shop. (Nán sticks embarrassingly close to North.) The tour group slowly dissolves.

Nán assumes they'd just go back to the hotel. It's not going to be that easy.

"Distract him." North said, with a nod to Garrett.

"Um, why?"

"I'll only be a minute." And then North's gone—slipped back into the mansion.

Nán panics (just a bit). The parlor's emptying and the last old lady chatting up the tour guide was saying au revoir. The chemist straightens her shirt, runs a hand through her hair, and says a few Mandarin curses under her breath.

"Heyyy—Garrett, right?" She says (not very casually.) The Garett in question glances down at his name tag.

"I think so. What can I do for you?" Leaning on a sales counter, it's obvious he's still unsure about her. He's wary—like he's sure she's in league with the weird guy. Nán's better at reading emotions than her chess partner. She twirls her hair and channels her own amazement (even with her mind muddled by schizophrenia, she's got this. She's a distracting machine.)

"That was—that was crazy, what happened in the hall. Have you ever seen spirit activity like that?" Nán gushes, her voice a library-whisper in the old space.

Garrett puts on a showman's smile and replies, "You wouldn't believe how much I've seen here."

"Wow...Sounds like you've got some kind of class-one vapor."

Something about that statement reminds Garett of his stalker. "I suppose so. Listen, about your, uh, friend—he's been by here about every week, and—"

"I know. And it's not what you think. He's in love with Gertrude Aldridge."

Garrett stands a little straighter at that, unable to keep the breathless relief out of his voice. "Oh. _Okay_ , still a little weird, but okay." He leans closer—"So, are you two an item?"

Before Nán can insist they're not, Garrett's turning on the charm.

"You know what? You don't have to answer that. I can see you're not having a great time with him, so let me give you my number..."

Nán just smiles, wishing she could set both men on fire.

.

Dinner: "No. I saw it, the candlestick just—it _just_ —you were _there_! Everyone else reacted, I _didn't_ hallucinate it!" Nán insists.

"There's a mechanism in the candlestick. If it were a _real_ instance of corporeal interaction there'd be ionization residue." North replies coldly. He doesn't even look up from whatever he's scribbling.

They're sitting in a diner the janitor frequents. And whatever data North got from the Aldridge Mansion was sending his mind spinning.

"Well then..." Nán steals a few fries off his plate and chides him. "Garrett told me some interesting things. He's seen some other activity there. Aaand..."

She slides a piece of paper with a message across the table.

"He gave me _this_ to give to _you_. Says you wore him down. Don't have too much fun."

North regards the paper like it's poisonous. "Call me when you're alone. X-O." He reads.

For a guy who acts like getting a date is The Best And Most Prestigious Award he was So Wrongfully Denied...he isn't very grateful.

Later, their waitress will tell her coworkers she saw the weirdo with an Asian chick. None of her coworkers will believe her.

.

Night: The subway ride back takes way longer than the ride there. They take two trains, to the south side. Nán is, of course, left in the dark—like North doesn't think she's capable enough to be let in on...whatever he's planned. He's happily oblivious to her "you're being a dick" vibes, too, so that was unlikely to change.

After nine, Nán couldn't care less what the insane janitor was planning. As long as it didn't mean more walking. The static electricity—which the south line has a lot of—and the flickering lights, she could deal with. She let her mind drift with the swaying of the subway cars (into strange and disjointed places), and fell asleep with her head on her chess partner's shoulder.

.

?: "This goddamn hotel better not be haunted, North."

"I don't know what you mean."

.

November: They've developed an intellectual rapport to pass the time. They bridge the gap between atomic physics and molecular chemistry during games in the basement. Passing pieces of paper (whatever was lying in reach) back and forth, they communicate in numbers and symbols. There's unspoken rules—they have to complete whatever problem they were handed before taking their turn and stopping their clock. Nán gets better at physics with every game.

(They play something called an Armageddon game; an aggressive fight with different constraints on each player. Black automatically wins in the event of a draw. White gets an extra minute on their clock. Rarely does North play as white—and truth be told, Nán threw a few games. Rowan North doesn't handle losing with grace.)

.

Days later: "So I called the number you gave me." North brings up, in the middle of one game. His tone is annoyed—but Nán doesn't hear that at all.

"You called? You called Garrett?" This is the best gossip Nán's heard in years. "I'm so happy for you, putting yourself out there like that—"

"—He hung up on me. I only wanted to know the frequency and duration of the paranormal occurrences, and he _hung up on me_."

"That jackass. You know what? He doesn't deserve you."

.

Days later: Physics is a language the chemist is slowly becoming fluent in. (North doesn't suspect a thing. She's "the invalid", in his mind.) A few more odd—and subtly disturbing—outings have passed, still with no indication what they're supposed to be doing. Nán's more curious than anything. What kind of data are they supposed to be collecting?

"90% of our sensory contact with the paranormal goes undetected," says some thick book the chemist finds. (She dares to dig further into North's lab while he's out, praying she doesn't find anything she can't unsee.)

There's notes tucked into the book, of course. Half math and half doodles. North's pretty good at drawing, but the pen sketch of a dragonfly is wrong. The ones that eat flesh have longer legs. Her eyes are drawn to the dragonfly, and with a reckless curiosity, she goes through the book.

"E. mag fluctuations (R^.035/R^.062) across the skin misinterpreted as 'carnivorous insects'."

A chapter that catches her eye mentions her condition. "The chemical imbalance known as schizophrenia doesn't have a direct link to clairvoyance. Studies since the 80s (the Star Gate projects, MK Ultra, Cambridge, S. Wesson) seeking some link between psychiatric disorders and clairvoyance have come up dry. Psychic ability comes from something more than abnormal brain chemistry. But hallucinations don't come from a vacuum..."

Something about it turns Nán's stomach. She skims the rest.

"...Perhaps it's all just coincidence. But perhaps...the anecdotal evidence points to something more."

"Human dowsing rod" is scribbled in a corner.

"The invalid won't stop staring at the door."

Hanging on the wall (beneath a picture of Gertrude's portrait) is an illustration of the locked basement.

Nán decides she doesn't want to know any more. She doesn't get paid enough to deal with this. She puts everything back in its proper place and leaves the room.

.

?: The Mercado has a long and checkered history. Parts of it are hidden from the public eye, in the interest of commerce (of course). Time has no meaning to a dopamine-poisoned brain. In the midday-check in crowd, a woman in a burlesque suit moves across the lobby, a century late for her show. No one else seems to notice the stranger. In New York, that didn't mean much. Things move through crowds—just a fragile barrier separating them from the living. Rowan North starts planning the end of the world. While Nán's got enough of a mind to figure her way out of that hotel, the tide of her illness has her in its grasp. North is counting on that.

But the center cannot hold.

The center cannot hold.

.

Days later: "Jesus Christ...go to _sleep_ , fēngzi."

It's getting closer to the holidays, and the hotel is too full for Nán to stay in a room. The basement is where she'll be camping out. (It looks more like a lab than living quarters.) Twelve hours alone with the janitor.

As the night began she was wary of his every movement, but hours later it seems he intends to spend the night working on some damn machine, conspicuously far away from where Nán was curled up in an overstuffed armchair, under some musty blanket. ('So this is when he has time to engineer. Maybe he's a vampire.' the chemist thinks.)

She'd mentally inventoried what objects could be used as weapons—for reasons all women know. She was 100% happy with the creepy guy ignoring her. She'd be catching up on sleep lost to schizophrenia...If it wasn't for the light.

And North muttering to himself.

And North missing a simple principle of chemistry.

Through her chess partner's rambling, she could see the problem; he was missing the forest for the trees. Listening to his suffering is only fun for the first hour. _She's_ the insomniac, dammit. So she goes and puts him out of his misery.

"You're working with an ancient mirror—that's all silver, probably a bit of tin. If you want both metals to resonate with any kind of PKE wave, you gotta take into account the IE. First 730.995, second 2072.26, you know. All that atomic goodness."

North regarded her with a sort of strained patience—"Yes, I know. The material isn't _responding_ to any wave like it should. Perhaps I need another mirror..."

"Try variating, like, three different waves. Silver's super conductive, but it's finicky. Learned that in sophomore year."

There was some checking of papers. The Universe adds insult to injury—she has something there.

And just like that, he's back in his own math-y, apocalyptic world, flying through notes and grabbing for pliers. God knows what he's doing with that mirror. Nán just hopes it doesn't kill them all.

"'Gee thanks, Miss Chen. Couldn't have done it without you, Miss Chen.' " She says to herself. "'You're welcome, North. No problem.'"

The janitor would be busy for a couple hours, so Nán collapses in the single bed, falling asleep under equations and sketches of ghosts.

.

Next day: He's in a much better mood come morning. Nán can't tell what time it is when she wakes, but it's morning, and North hasn't been called into work yet. It seems he's just sitting at his workbench, staring at the damn mirror.

"You alive over there?" Nán calls. It's too early for rational thought—she says it in Mandarin. Rowan North doesn't even notice.

"Miss Chen." he calls back. "You're still here. I've done it!"

"You've done what? ... _You_ 've done what?" No credit for her help then. The concrete's freezing under her feet as she pads over, a little scared to see what he's done.

He's sure done...something. The mirror's propped up on the workbench in front of him. (He's totally been staring into it all night.) Where the ancient silver should've reflected the room, there was just something dark and swirling, like a hole into a different room. Once in awhile it flickers—like the connection isn't perfect. Nán has to look behind the frame for evidence of a screen. There's nothing there! Just a length of ferrous wire around the rim, a little generator in a box. Nán runs her hand over the dark glass—there's the faint tingle of electrical discharge. She watches the dimension churn and imagines she can see faces in there.

"What _did_ you do, North?" The janitor in question was up and organizing the remains of his work.

"Let's just say...I broke the fourth wall."

"...That doesn't tell me anythi—North! That doesn't make any sense!"

.

Almost December: A scary thing is happening. Two hours are lost to fragmented thoughts. Nán dives into her chemistry. She's not going to fall apart, not when she's safe for the first time in...

Well, a long time.

.

December: Little-known fact: hotels keep a lost-and-found box of things left in rooms. Things too valuable to throw away but not valuable enough to be stolen or resold. Kept behind the associate manager's desk, it houses (among other things) a photo album from the '40s, someone's written proposal-poem (apparently she said no), a collection of shocking 'toys', and an _infinite_ number of phone chargers. The wire from said chargers (there are SO MANY) has some use in North's projects, so Nán spent one evening, dressed in a t-shirt found in said box, stripping wires.

"This seems illegal." the chemist says. Talking to Rowan North is as difficult and awkward as herding cats, but she's a social butterfly, so sue her.

"It's not illegal if modern science doesn't think it's possible." is all North says back.

"...I meant the chargers."

"Oh."

"We're—you're—actually doing something illegal down here, aren't you?"

North stops working to send her a look. 'You're staying illegally in a five-star hotel', it reminds her.

"Right, right..."

"...The laws of average men have always been three steps behind science. While astronomers were discovering the heliocentric model, the church was burning innocents alive."

"See? Tài xiàrénle!" (Nán filters into Mandarin what she knows she shouldn't say—North probably gets called creepy a lot.) "Why do you say things like that?"

"Because it's the truth."

"Aiyaa...You know, if you had a lab coat and a German accent, you'd make a great mad scientist."

"Is that so."

"Mm hmm. You are...you're a weird stereotype. Did you know that or are you, like, blissfully unaware?" Nán avoids the words "white guy stereotype" because—historically—white people don't like to be told they're white. Her mental filter may be gone, but she still has a shred of self-preservation.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Of course, of course. Just wondering—when we first met, and you asked me three times 'where I'm from', did you just not hear my answer, or...?"

"You _wouldn't_ tell me."

"I told you three times, I'm from Brooklyn! Really, North...I know about the, the staring at people until they're obligated to talk to you. "The Exorcist" on VHS, too, the only movie you own, that's—interesting. Do you...listen to Frank Sinatra? The staring at waitresses' chests, do you mean to do that? Do you—do you own a fedora?"

"Am I under _investigation_?" Defensive, defensive. North's always so defensive beneath that polite veneer. Nán drops it.

"No, just wondering. I didn't mean anything by it." He didn't say no to the fedora thing. Speaking of fashion...

She reaches down into the little loot-box of electronics and tosses her weirdest find on North's workbench.

"What is this supposed to be? And why is it over here?"

"Its a bowtie. They're super cute, you should wear it."

In response, North just flicks it to the side with a pencil and goes back to work. Nán goes back to work with a slight smile. His resistance to all things human (that aren't necessary for his immediate survival, that is) is amusing. North's fun to mess with. They're finally close enough for that, Nán thinks.

.

?: It's like the janitor robbed an antiques store—his collection of weird, dark mirrors has grown. He's starting to construct a machine—larger than life—on a spot in the basement marked X. Images of fire and genocide fill his brain, bleeding onto paper. A three-line mantra's always running through his head. It's there as he goes about his work in the hotel. It's there when he checks on the invalid. It's always there.

And he embraces it.

.

Late: Nán holds the phone with a shaky hand. "I don't like the man pacing on the balcony."

There are no balconies on any of the rooms. As far as North knows, there never were. But the voice on the phone isn't comforted by the fact.

"Don't lie. I can see him through the window! I don't like him I want him to

Where is Amy

I need

He's still out

I need

MAKE HIM GO AWA—"

.

Later: In an overstuffed chair in the basement, shaking, Anastasia Nántai Chen is staring at a spot on a wall. Her lips just barely move. North—sitting on the edge of the bed—can't make out what she's saying. It's probably more of the English-Mandarin hybrid language.

The lights are low, and thoughts are dark. It seems the right time to ask.

"Do you think about dying?"

Nán turns and looks right at him—for the first time that night. "What?"

"Do you think about dying?"

The chemist regards him; decides to take the question as a rude, misguided try at helping.

"No, I don't—I'm...sometimes. When I think about...how I can't get better...People say I'm such a burden."

"People are garbage."

She turns away and puts her hands over her head. Hiding from the truth. "Sometimes."

"What does it feel like?"

"Wanting to? ...Right now? ...It's like a current, pulling me out to sea. It's an exit sign, and I'm in the world's longest, shittiest show...Do you think about...?"

She can barely make out Rowan North, smiling in the gloom.

"Every day."

.

Morning: Wordlessly, unseen, the chemist moves about the basement room. Fragmented thoughts of ghosts and late-night confessions swirl in her head. She's alone. That's the only time she can do it.

Finding no pill bottles, she scans the bits of metal scattered on work tables. There are plenty of things in the room that can kill, of course, but she picks a place to start and works methodically. She tests an edge on her finger—sharp enough to cut a person's wrist. Thank god North is so weirdly organized. She finds out where the piece would go on a rough diagram, and deciphers the edge will not be missed. She attacks it with a file. When it's sufficiently dull, Nán tests the next piece.

People that have suffered are, well, people. Some of them are bad. Pain twists. Still, there are a good few who try to spare others what they've gone through. Despite everything, they try to help.

.

Days later: The last of their day trips concludes with a minor breakdown. Nán bolts from a thrift store at Chelsea, anxiety suddenly too much.

"Don't—I can't control it. It's like being roofied." She later says, pacing around her room. "I don't know what's worse—kê xī, that pity, my friends laughing and filming, or your look of _disgust_."

North makes to leave.

"I want to get help."

(Later, with her arms covered in her own nail-marks from trying to get the bugs off, she'd say the same thing. The answer was the same.)

"We'll talk later." In that customer-service, fake pleasant manner.

Truth be told, he thought about it. But only for a second. The woman obviously needed a hospital—but indulging her would mean forfeiting what he'd worked for for years...Despite her suffering (or perhaps, because of her suffering,) Rowan North continued preparations.

He'd never bring up the subject. "Later" would never come. Some people have a funny way of repaying kindness.

.

Christmas: The holidays bring a nice vacation from the last weeks' chaos—and a steady truce between the two conspirators. Christmas Eve—a momentary respite from the hotel's holiday hell—is rung in with cheap bottles of spiked eggnog from a corner store and two of the most horrible sweaters the chemist has ever seen. She thought the one she dug out of the lost-and-found was horrific. But North showed her up with a monstrosity found on some god-forsaken thrift store rack. He seemed totally oblivious to how bad it was, too, wearing it like it was his usual ancient Oxford attire. Nán didn't want to say anything. Where does one even _start_?

"Candle's burning low." Nán says of the shrine in the corner.

North explained to her (like that one morbid child every playground had) that Christmas was based on a pagan holiday. (He also informed her which nursery rhymes were about death. It was an informative day for her.) The chemist left out a plate of cookies as an offering. To a pagan God? An ancestral spirit? After two bottles of eggnog it hardly matters. (The light from the candle barely pierced the dark mirror it was set in front of.)

"I'm dragging you to Chinatown before New Years, we're gonna get some xiāng. Burning stuff. See what we can conjure up with that."

"Incense? ...The black-body radiation from certain burning materials is theorized to affect metaphysical fields."

"Great! That's the spirit...Merry Christmas, North."

Rowan North (so painfully used to isolation) just smiles, tilts his bottle towards Nán's in a toast, and repeats the sentiment. "Merry Christmas, Nan."

.

Almost 2016: She doesn't remember telling him about her Chinese name. Or giving him permission to use it. (He says it wrong, but she kinda expects that.) Surprisingly, he says it with respect. Familiarity. It becomes a thing, like her calling him by his last name, and Nán can live with it.

Time is now a twilight of concrete walls and free-associating. She forgets to call her sister and wish her happy holidays. Not even her beloved chemistry can help her now.

After midnight, the lobby is abandoned. The front desk attendant is there—but more often than not, they're asleep. That's why the chemist's head is turned when, wandering meeting rooms on the second floor, she hears a party going on downstairs.

Through fragmented thoughts she tries to get her bearings. It isn't New Year's. She's pretty sure it's late at night. Maybe a big group is checking in? (Last time that happened, she was treated to the sight of a drunk, impromptu Broadway performance.) Her feet are suddenly moving. She's going to check it out.

Nán leans on a rail to the right of the big space. Her brain struggles to make sense of the information she's getting. There's a party down there, oh yes. Dozens of people milling about the lobby. Their voices bounce around the flashy space. All of them—this is what Nán notices first—have long hair, even the men. At first she thinks half of them are Chinese. No, they have darker skin, their features are different. They're Indian? The rest seem white. The two groups are mingling like old friends. Nán's brain can't put together what they're all saying, it might be some other language...

She closes her eyes, counts to three, and the picture changes.

The lobby's full of bodies.

Lying perfectly still, all prone, their clothes splashed red—

Their voices fade to echoes and the smell of death rushes up—

And then it's all gone. No sign it ever happened at all. Nán must have run, she figures. The memories are fractured. It seems she's falling apart.

.

?: "Why are you doing this?"

It's days (maybe weeks) later and the ability to speak has come back. The chemist finds herself in the basement again. She's not alone. This seems to be a recurring thing. Rowan North (who can barely be bothered with the question—he's engineering his pièce de résistance) answers truthfully.

"I'm building a machine that will destroy the Barrier, flooding New York with ghosts."

"...Of course."

He must've said something else. The chemist curses her brain (stupid thing won't even English right) and goes in on her ramen. As long as he has a hobby.

.

2016: Times Square on New Years is a wall-to-wall party, inside the Mercado and out. For someone like Rowan North, that's a hellscape. He'd rather spend the night holed up with a machine. (The next day would be spent cleaning up every mess drunken guests could possibly make, fishing condoms out of toilets, etc. He'd need the rest.) But by God, the sight of Nán curled up in that chair for the sixteenth consecutive hour is just pitiful. Maybe they both need a break from the ley lines' poison aura. Bet the Asian girl has never seen Times Square in all its... _overstimulating_ glory. Might as well enjoy New Years.

It'd be the last one humanity got.

Sitting on the TKTS risers, shouting over the crowd, North says so.

"Don't worry! Chinese New Year's around the corner." Nán pats him on the shoulder. Distracted by the party, she misheard. North lets it go.

It's cold as hell. They're bundled up like they're on a trip to the Arctic (and that's a good thing, North thinks; the Square is beyond crowded and he's not the right kind of doctor to be _this_ intimate with strangers). January 1st approaches. Working at the Mercado has its benefits—they were able to push through the crowd and find prime real estate while other latecomers were stuck on side-streets. Nán comes alive under the city lights. It feels good to see her...less sickly. (And one doesn't know how touch-starved they truly are until one finds themselves pressed side-to-side against a pretty Asian woman in Times Square.) She's one of the few in that damnable city that could hold a torch to him intellectually. Rowan North tries to picture her as one of the (dozens of) girls he knew, giggling with her friends like he couldn't hear, laughing at _him_ —but the image isn't working anymore...damn her. Damn her. Somewhere along the way, Nán figured into Rowan's plans in a very different way.

They cling to each other in a cold, noisy world as 2016's rung in. The schizophrenic and the para-terrorist. For a moment, there's peace.

.

?: January gets underway. Some of the guests complain about green slime coming from behind their mirrors. Business as usual in the Mercado.

Sometime after midnight: The phone rings.

"What is it?"

"Rowan. North. Fēngzi. You're the ghost expert...why are ghosts always trying to kill people? The killed people would just come back as ghosts, it'd be super awkward."

_Click._

_._

Almost Chinese New Year: A full week passes with Nán in a state of mute terror. Numbness, fear, emotions deep as conceivable space and thoughts quicker than a femto chemical reaction, wash over her in a tide. It's the lowest in a long string of lows. When she finally—

finally—

FINALLY—

resurfaces, she's safe, in the basement. How long had she been there? It feels like always, and never. She's not quite out of the woods but she can get up and uncurl stiff limbs. Nán does a mental inventory. Which faculties are online? As she moves about the room, the chemist pieces together what she can. Her shoes are at the door—when she last came in, she wasn't being carried. Almost...a week, she'd guess. The tide recedes quickly. Almost a week she's been under. And apparently, the greater hotel staff still doesn't know she's there. How much does she owe Rowan North?

Speaking of—he wasn't around. Maybe it was just her imagination (or just that she was re-discovering the basement), but it seemed more _crowded_. There were more machine parts. Even more mirrors. And in the center, something big and half-covered with an old sheet. Was that there before?

(Nán would figure that out later. She needed a shower, and some food.)

Maybe an hour passes and North still isn't back. Late shift, probably. Nán's stuff has a corner in the chaos. Tying her wet hair back, she opens her bag and goes through it. Her weird system was still in place. It appears he didn't dress her. Nán breathes a little sigh of relief. That didn't rule out...other things that might have happened to her, but it was still a good sign...In all the times she'd been in that unreachable place, as far as she can tell, he didn't touch her. He looked, but when she was babbling out word salad, or not seeing what was right in front of her, she was put in the most secure spot (bundled up in bed) and...left. Not assaulted, not helped, just left, like a bit of lab equipment. Watched over—or locked in.

That burning question rocketed up again. What _was_ his price for helping her? Nán hated to dwell on it—to examine her luck too closely—but what did a man like Rowan North get from letting her stay? She could only come up with a few flimsy reasons. Companionship? Loneliness stuck on North like white on...well, North. Someone to help with the machines and not ask questions? Maybe...

But why all that effort? Why his strange behavior? Why?

Why?

(the center cannot hold)

Wh—

Her head's spinning again. Nán feels panic flaring up and shoves that (unsolvable) question aside. When was the last time she used her coping techniques? Not since she came to the Mercado, that's for sure.

One, two, three, breathing in and out. She names three elements for every inhale and exhale. And that's better. Jeez. Amy would rib her for getting so worked up. The evening grows later.

And then there's a sound.

The flittering of ghostly wings.

_Was_ that the flittering of wings? Not again...

(the center cannot hold)

Nán, having nothing better to do in her boredom, turns around and looks. It's really only luck that she spots the dragonfly. Nán is so damn tired of the little ghosts...She follows it—driven by the same fundamental human instinct that made Lot's wife turn and look back.

The hateful thing's alit on North's favorite book. She knows it isn't real, but it seems to be chewing on the pages. She shoos it and it doesn't attack her hand. Just flits to the corners of her vision, where it and its friends stay. The book...

It's the one he's always carrying around. The sacred text. Ghosts from our Past. There's an impressive nebula on the cover. Though it can't be but a few years old, it's worn, the edges of the dust jacket frayed and the pages well thumbed through. Nán knows no one's supposed to touch it, but dammit, it's like the one place she hasn't snooped...

...she didn't know what she expected.

The first chapters (once she's able to read them—her mind's still a bit dissociated) are as boring and dry as North's personality. Farraday's law, EMF, yeah, yeah...

Some pages are spattered with notes...North would write on _people_ , if they'd stay still long enough. Nán tries to decode a half-page at the end of a chapter. Said chapter theorized about the atomic structure of ghosts.

North's notes went beyond that.

He'd written down a formulas for ionizing them...

Nán checked and double-checked. If any of that nonsense was real, ionizing entities meant giving them a good foothold in the physical world—where there's a real danger of a ghost hurting someone.

Suddenly the chemist feels like she shouldn't be there, like she's being followed. Dark mirrors (dozens of them) peer down at her. They are watching. Turning back to Ghosts from our Past, with a dark chill on the back of her neck, she presses on.

She has to know. Has to know.

The center cannot hold.

Margins get more crowded. More numbers, more theorems, more scary ideas...The more Nán reads, the less she likes what she's seeing. That was what North had been working on for months.

It would've been better if she'd seen the slurred writing of a mental break...But no, North's notes have a terrible clarity about them. He wrote with a clear mind. He meant to calculate how much radiation it would take to tear open

(TEAR OPEN)

the veil between the living and the dead.

(the center cannot hold the center cannot hold the center cannot hold)

Letters give way to

_drawings_

straight out of a nightmare. There, in the blank spaces, North's imagination overflows onto paper; a look inside his head. At first they're just scratches. Gertrude Aldridge is rendered

("all stabbed to death in their sleep")

with an ionized aura. Around her are calculations for a mini cyclcotron, a device to bring her back from the grave. And everywhere,

everywhere,

designs for an even greater machine...

The walls are plastered with them: blueprints for something huge. How had Nán never noticed them? She digs through other books to find context for the scribbles. Her blood runs cold as she does. Rowan North's trying to build that great, big machine. The science behind it is solid too.

And there's a whole section of the book she hasn't seen...

It's like the world holds its breath as Nán delves deeper. Nightmares grow to cover whole pages.

It's too late to turn away.

(the center cannot hold)

Rowan's plan is laid out in technicolor clarity. There, expressed for God and the chemist to see, was the reason for everything. There was the answer to the burning question. Nán had some illusion, in the beginning, that he was just _studying_ the spirits. Surely, surely, her senses are wrong...?

(The family and friends of other terrorists all repeat the same mantra. "We can't believe he did it. We just didn't see it coming. We didn't think he could..." Nán, with the coldest sinking feeling in her gut, has no illusions. She doesn't _want_ to believe it...but deep down, she knows North is capable.)

She closes her eyes.

One,

two,

three.

The nightmare images are still there.

One,

two,

three-

(breathe in and out Nántai Chen you're okay)

but they're still there.

Under her fingers, she can feel where the angry marks dug into the paper. (Evidence of the rage North kept locked up—never showing anyone, fueling his life's work.) The destruction of New York.

Her hallucinations didn't bleed into every sense like that...the images were perfectly still...Nán had no doubt if she emerged into the lobby and showed everyone she met, they'd see them, too.

They were real.

They were real.

And the machine...

No, he couldn't have.

Nán remembers sparks, and the sound of metal being reshaped. He'd been working on it for weeks while she just sat there—USELESS. Nán tore the threadbare sheet off the machine and took in the bones of the thing. It wasn't finished. But it wasn't far from it. And by God, when it was done, it would _work_.

That bastard. Cào nǐ zǔzōng shíbā dài! He used her—how could she be so stupid? How could she have gone along with it? He'd use the data she helped him get to charge the damn lines, and he's going to turn on the machine and destroy the whole city.

Nán's mother and sister still live in New York.

(Everything falls apart. The center cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world...)

Nán's hands bunch into fists at her side. The janitor—the genius—means to kill them all.

(The blood-dimmed tide is loosed)

Nán has a choice now. Go to the police? They'd never believe her, no one would—

(The ceremony of innocence is drowned)

He's still in the hotel somewhere. He doesn't know what she's discovered. He has no idea.

(The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.)

If some twisted sort of love kept North from turning her out onto the streets when he had all the data he needed—well, that was his mistake. She found his plan; she has the tools and the knowledge to fix what she'd accidentally done. She's made her decision.

The center cannot hold.

And Anastasia Nántai Chen's going to destroy the machine.

.

?, fifth floor: "That's what I'm telling you! In the winter, the vents make this rattling noise, it's like—...what was that?"

The lights had dimmed. A hum seemed to come up through the carpet. The guest that had been chewing North out for fifteen minutes finally stopped in her tirade. And North's mind was suddenly six floors away from that conversation.

"I'm sure it's nothing, Mrs. Porter..." he says (with a smile just a bit too tense.) Anything could have happened to the girl in the basement. Anything at all. "If you'll excuse me for a moment..."

.

?: " _WHAT HAVE YOU DONE_?!"

Nán doesn't face the source of the sound. It's terrible, heart-rending, and so full of rage—but Nán stands her ground. Hand still on the switch that killed the machine, she stands her ground.

"It's over!" she shouts over the machine tearing itself apart. Did she say it in English or Mandarin? It hardly matters. Sparks arc from the dying thing; the smell of burning circuitry fills the room. In a terrible moment she doesn't know if killing the machine will kill them too. Then—

She's RIPPED away from the switches, stumbles to get away—is North going for the switches or her throat? (Glimpses of his face, the sound of his voice, are all Nán needs to know North's angry enough to do anything.) She doesn't even have time to see when

when

_BANG_.

The basement's plunged into darkness. The only light is from the still-sparking cyclotron. The noise is so violent. It's like the world is ending.

There's someone shouting after her, and the voice seems to come from everywhere at once. Cursing her? Begging her to come back? There are fingers in her hair and Nán has to get away get away GET AWAY—

Light's coming from the basement doors—

there, THERE—

A biting dragonfly crawls out of her hair in the dark, and suddenly, Nán is free. _Free_! She's out and into the blinding light of the lobby as fast as her legs can carry her.

Nightmare and reality are bleeding into each other—are the things grabbing at her clothes, her hair, real? Her bare feet pound on the expensive marble as she searches for anywhere—ANYWHERE—to escape to.

It's late. The lobby is abandoned. No one there to help her.

She spies a small space and makes it there, losing the things grabbing at her. She slams into the back of the elevator and (with no breath left in her burning lungs) hides in a forward corner, frantically pushing the topmost button. She just needs to stay safe in the elevator as long as she can. She just needs the doors to CLOSE.

In the scary, year-long seconds before they do, she imagines someone's calling her name.

Muzak's never sounded better to Nán. She stares at the carpet and gets her bearings. Her shaking legs can barely hold her; she almost sinks to the floor. Instead she looks up. In the upper corner, staring right back at her, is a camera—her saving grace. Someone will know she's there. Someone will know she's in trouble. She paces and rubs her arms.

Her mind's fracturing again. Always at the worst times, she curses herself.

_Ding_.

The old-fashioned dial's stuck between two numbers. Is the elevator broken? Oh, hell.

Nán tucks herself into her safe corner again. The elevator's shuddering. Could it fall?

The doors open—finally, finally—on an empty hallway. But the hallway floor is a good foot above the elevator floor. The light above Nán flickers twice. Something's not right. With another shudder, it lines itself up with the hallway, like it should've done, but now it's malfunctioning in another way—the doors aren't closing. Nán sure isn't setting off their sensor, even when she gets the courage to hover around the doors she doesn't get between them. It's like something's there. And it isn't her.

Nán watches the floor. It doesn't move relative to the hallway...Flicker, flicker, the lights are going again. She moves around. Gets the courage to dart out. The hallway's as still and dim as the grave. But she doesn't stay there long. At any second she could spot the scarlet of North's uniform. She puts together enough reason to figure she needs to get to the ground floor. With or without her things, she needs to get out of the damn Mercado.

But the buttons won't respond! The thing's frozen. Frustration grows in Nán. She'll find no safety there. And there are twenty-five floors between her and freedom.

.

Floor 25: Nán steps out of the elevator. The very air is still and dead. Vague shapes are flickering back in the elevator. Footsteps muffled by the ancient carpet, Nán creeps along a wall. There's another camera at the bend. Electronic eyes. North won't attack her with someone watching. In the camera's view, away from maintenance halls, she's safe...

She takes the most roundabout path to the main stairwell. The Mercado is a space-between-spaces where time doesn't matter and there were creatures in every shadow...

.

Floor 19: Cutting through hallways, Nán hasn't seen a soul. She'd spent months in the hotel, she knows where the cameras are on every floor. Her whole stay she's been conditioned to avoid them. Suddenly they're her only hope.

She thinks about screaming for help. Pounding on every door she passed. God, she wants to. But some animal instinct tells her that would only call her pursuer down on her.

.

Floor 10: It's like someone lit a match in Nán's chest. Adrenaline keeps her going. She has to get out.

She has to get back to Amy.

.

Floor 6: The lights are flickering. Nán watches them. They go out—leaving a whole section of the hall dark. She has to brave it. And she does, with uncertain footsteps. She is

so

close.

.

Floor 4: Nán almost doesn't see the guest as she dodges past the unlucky floor. He's just a glimpse of dark blue bathrobe. She does a double take—he's real, he's solid. The first person she's seen since the elevator. Thank God, Buddha, whoever else was up there—she's found another person.

(And someone else found her.)

"Xiansheng—mister—" She's in front of him in an instant, out of breath, hair coming out of its bun; and the wealthy businessman-looking guy is already recoiling—

When they both hear a heavy door open behind them.

A door to a maintenance stairwell.

"I need help—call somebody! Please! Call somebody!"

But the guest, disgusted beyond reason, leans away from her grasping hands, and just watches as she runs. He'll complain to the front desk in the morning.

It never crosses his mind to help.

.

Floor 2: Pounding down the main staircase, running blind,

(every muscle burning can't breathe CAN'T BREATHE)

Nán finds herself on the ballroom level. At night it's a labyrinth of dark, featureless hallways and cavernous rooms. Nán's so close to the lobby. If it comes down to it, she'll fight her way out with tooth and nail—she's SO CLOSE...

Someone calls her name.

There's no rational thought then. Half-running, half-stumbling, she takes off in a random direction. She's in the dark then. No one's coming to help her. Floral wallpaper flies by, and she can hear footsteps right behind her, she's SO CLOSE—

She never sees the railing coming.

The bright light of the open lobby is what she's sprinting for. It's just at the end of a corridor. She hears someone call her name again (far behind her, out of breath) and she turns to catch a glimpse of North, just as the wrought-iron railing slams her in the hip, and she goes over.

.

Floor 1: The Mercado's lobby had three cameras. One panning over the doors. One facing the grand staircase. And one watching the reception desk. Between these three, management figured the lobby was pretty well covered.

None of them catch Anastasia Nántai Chen's fall. She whites out on the marble floor, unseen, within yards of freedom and within feet of the basement door.

.

?: Nán doesn't know where she is...She doesn't know if she's alive.

Her lungs fill—again and again—with dusty basement air. Her head hurts, everything is—

fragmented,

she can't see...

"I thought you...of all people...would understand."

She places the voice immediately and it sends a surge of fear through her. She can't move. Was that because of the fall, or because...something was restraining her...?

She thought she can't see anything. That isn't true. Nán starts to make out the basic shape of something—a mirror placed a few feet from her. Just her, in a chair, facing a mirror. She can't see herself in it. No. Behind the glass is something

deep—

dark—

swimming with entities just out of sight—

"Give me some sign you can hear me."

Nán manages to turn her head, and before her mouth can form an angry syllable, North's talking.

She can't see him. That's the scariest thing of all.

"Maybe somewhere deep down in that _useless brain_ , you still get it." He monologues from somewhere in the dark. "...I suppose it doesn't matter. You'll end up the same way..."

Behind her, Rowan North is checking the last of his notes. They were at the epicenter of the ley lines, everything was right. What he's about to do will weaken the barrier. Prime it for tearing...Any longer and he'll lose his conviction. He picks up a length of ferrous wire and pulls it taught between his hands. Good.

"I _do_ owe you an explanation—you've made this possible, after all. The first cataclysm comes when the veil between worlds is torn open. Ghosts will flood New York. The cleansing begins."

'You're crazy.' Nán tries to shout.

"The second cataclysm is when the spirits of the forgotten dead—led by yours truly—slaughter the powerful. They'll only be the first to go. I'm afraid the dregs of society will all be dead before this stage."

'Let me out of here—' Nán's tongue won't obey.

"The third cataclysm sees the fall of all resistance. Entire armies, wiped away."

'I just want to see my sister again...'

"And the fourth...The fourth. Where the masses are rounded up, and dispatched, left to rot wherever they fall. First the suits, the moneymakers. Then the caretakers. The drudge laborers...so on...so on. I will lead them all to the butchering. I will replace God."

"Please..." Nán says.

Suddenly he is in front of her—kneeling, face to face, making her look at him. His grey eyes were so bright in the low light. He looked more alive

(terribly alive)

than she'd ever seen.

"You've forced my hand—but still, I'm doing this for _you_. Do you understand? You'll be the first into that cold void...You'll be spared the horror of what's to come. I'll make it as quick as I can."

Then he's gone again. Nán's heart is racing. If she can't move, can't make him stop...

With a great effort she moves one of her hands. She isn't restrained.

The dimension behind the mirror roils and churns.

She feels a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Remember. Charge the lines. Create the vortex. Break the barrier."

"Rowan, please..." Nán begs.

She reaches up. Her fingertips brush his face. Then she feels a wire slip over her head. It cuts into her neck and she's hurting, fading, falling—

.

?: The minutes feel like hours. Years. Rowan North stands behind the unmoving body, one hand still on her shoulder. She doesn't stir. Neither does the mirror.

He's waiting. Waiting. But nothing is happening.

The miniature cyclotron placed in front of the mirror should be _just_ powerful enough to draw her spirit to the barrier. Still, the mirror remains empty. Months—years!—of sacrifice and devotion have led to this one moment, this blank glass pane. For just a second, his faith in the paranormal flickers. There's a terrific fear in the pit of his stomach that what he just did was for nothing. But it lasts only a second. The hand holding her up grows stiff. Time ticks on. The void roils.

What failed to occur to him, in his months of meticulous planning, was this—it takes strength and time to garrote someone. More than the layperson (a virgin to such crimes) expects. While North watches the barrier for any flicker of movement, the stray hairs hanging in front of Nán's face move with her shallow breath. The thin marks around her neck start to bruise. While her eyes (pinpricked with red) watch the barrier with him, still, she sees.

She doesn't understand what happens next. Her oxygen-starved brain is still struggling to reboot.

Lights. They scroll past her. She has the faintest notion she's being moved through a grey hall, at the bottom of some cart.

There's a room with a lot of heat. She's being moved again.

Then her lungs inhale ash,

'i wish i could see Amy—'

and her mind fractures

one

final

time.

.

May: "Good evening, and welcome to The Truth Unearthed...your only source of sanity in a 'paranormal' world. As always, I'm your host, Martin Heiss—and here with me is the returning Alec Melnitz. Tonight we'll examine the latest of New York's many mysteries. This one comes to us from the World Wide Web...stay tuned, and stay alert. This is The Truth Unearthed."

Martin Heiss's show (entering its sixth season) is filmed in a dusky, Ripley-esque office. Countless spooky curios frame the man himself. (His co-star sits off to the side.) Martin talks to the camera in a low voice. Never without his characteristic hat and cane, his countenance is like a familiar old relative, back from his worldly travels. That's how Martin captivates his audience.

(Some of his fans call him Uncle Heiss. A small subculture call him Daddy, but we don't talk about those people.)

This episode would be one of Martin Heiss's last. The theme song plays. The office fades back in. Martin Heiss introduces his show.

"Three months ago, a video was leaked from the closed-circuit cameras of the Mercado hotel." A picture of the facade appears. "The Internet's full of these 'found footage' viral sensations...and now it looks like the Mercado's the latest victim. Established in the twenties, it's one of the fanciest joints on 26th. It's said to have many unexplained deaths attached to it...right, Alec?"

"That's right, and even more unsubstantiated claims. The amount of urban legends probably DOUBLE the amount of unsolved cases—"

"Yes. Like any hotel. This video's spread like wildfire in a very short time. The Youtube original's got over a million hits. A modern urban legend, really—and it's easy to see why. Let's take a look."

The video fades in. It's grainy, low-quality, and without any sound. Just an empty elevator...then a blur of dark hair enters, slams into the opposite wall, and cowers in a forward corner. Her movements are jerky. Alien. She comes out of nowhere. She waits—frozen—for a second, then frantically starts pressing buttons, one hand wound in her hair.

"Nothing captured on any auxiliary cameras alludes to what this girl's running from...or how she got into the hotel." While the elevator starts its journey up, the show turns back to Martin Heiss. "While she's been identified by her sister, the guest manifesto never included her name. None of the staff remember seeing her. And you'd think someone would remember her, with what she does next."

The mystery woman's pacing. Practically shaking. Then she looks up at some sound. Hiding in that forward corner, it's like she's expecting a blow. The elevator doors slowly open (but the angle of the camera doesn't show the hallway floor). So, _so_ hesitantly, she examines the outside. Twitching, motioning, and mumbling to things that aren't there, the girl waits for the doors to close again. They don't.

The lights flicker, just barely caught by the camera. The woman looks up; mystified. It's easy to see her through the grainy camera and think she's unhinged. It's easy to forget she's a person.

She darts in and out. Another camera angle catches her looking around an empty hall. There's nothing there to be afraid of. But she moves like she's dodging invisible things. The word on everyone's mind, seeing this display, is "ghosts".

The nameless Asian woman wanders in and out. It seems none of the buttons work. Finally, she ventures into the hallway, leaning on a wall. And she's gone.

A few more shots trace her running—stumbling—stealing through abandoned hallways. The time stamp reads 3:14 AM—the witching hour. The video's delegated to a corner of the screen as Martin and his co-star discuss what's happening.

"Some obvious electrical interference there." Alec Melnitz starts.

"It's hard to tell what's really happening—but the thing that's got everybody buzzing is the end here."

With Martin Heiss's voice-over, the video continues, full-frame.

"There..."

The mystery girl's taking off down a series of halls.

"There..."

It's like she hears someone behind her; blindly, she rounds a corner.

"...Gone."

A few more camera angles are shown. Other second-floor hallways. The grand staircase. The front doors. They're all silent, they're all still.

The video fades away.

"That's the last time Anastasia Chen was seen alive." Martin says gravely. "In a police report released by the NYPD, she was positively identified—and no, she had no reason to be there. According to her family, she'd been missing for quite some time."

"The police failed to solve the mystery?" Alec asks, a scripted question.

"Yes—after a short investigation, no sign of Anastasia Chen was found. But they DID turn up an interesting fact about the Mercado—"

"What's that, Martin?"

"—Their _security system_ hadn't been updated since the '70s. There are enough blind spots on those cameras someone could get around totally undetected."

(Martin Heiss forgets to mention most of those 'blind spots' were behind doors that could only be opened with a staff card.)

"And the elevator, what's—what happened with that?" Alec asks.

"Well, digging a little deeper into hotel records, it turns out the Mercado had a host of _electrical problems_ all that week. Starting that night, in fact. Remember, this is a very old hotel." Martin addresses the camera again. "And now, I know what you're all thinking...what about the girl?"

Nán, actually nearing her thirties, appeared in the corner again—pacing in the elevator, caught the limbo that would be her legacy.

"Missing since her college days, suddenly she turns up at a _five-star hotel_ , of all places—and disappears into the ether just as quick. Where did she come from? What was she doing there? What happened to her? Those have been the questions on everyone's mind…but not everything is as it appears."

For a moment, Nán is full-frame again, frozen. Dark hair. Dark circles around her eyes. A pretty mystery, a sympathetic picture, a China doll for Martin Heiss to play with.

"Sometimes the truth is buried only inches under the surface! It took my team of researchers and I no time at all to uncover the truth. Anastasia Chen's no stranger to _trespassing_ in _hotels_ —this girl's a paranoid and dangerous schizophrenic!"

The still frame in the corner changed. Martin Heiss could've chosen any of the pictures on Nán's social media. One of her studying, or smiling with friends, or at Disneyworld with her family...the picture that represented her on the Truth Unearthed was from the time she was processed by the NYPD for trespassing. She could've been the monster Martin Heiss was describing. (And he was describing a fictitious kind of schizophrenia.)

"It's no wonder she's jumping at shadows here, is it? NYU records state she lost her scholarship for "withdrawal from academics". And it took some prying, but the family admitted at _long last_ , she's been on the streets—not locked up, like some would suggest."

"So the behavior on the video—"

"Was nothing more than one woman's insanity."

A society saturated with Hollywood's horror stories would believe that. No investigation would be held. No public vigil. After Martin Heiss 'debunked' it, the video would fade into obscurity.

"I'll tell you one thing—"

"What's that, Martin?"

"The most dangerous thing in that hotel is that schizo."

.

?: Rowan North holds vigil in the chair Nán left. In front of him, the mirror roils. It's hard to tell how long he's been there. No one's ever studied the process of death and reanimation. There's no telling how long she'll take...

...There was no joy in what he did. He reminds himself that, in a _better_ time, she would have been dragged to a clinic and euthanized. What he did was...a mercy. Yes, a mercy. She said she wanted to die, so he obliged her...

In the moment there was just the rush (determination? confidence? terror?), the wire in his hands, his own racing heartbeat...he imagined he could feel her heart slowing. He imagines he can still feel her touch, burned into his skin.

(What did she feel when she went? Where was she, while he was sitting there, watching the mirror? All that she was couldn't just be GONE—)

It must be nearing dawn. North's mind is far, far from the beginning of his next shift. The mirror remains dark, as ever. Once every few seconds he thinks he sees her features flitting by—just a trick of the light. But he's patient.

He can wait.

Hours have crawled on. Time has no meaning. There have been no security alerts, no voice over the walkie saying they have a trespasser, to interrupt his vigil. She should have known. No one watches the cameras.

The mirror's still dark...

...Surely, something should be happening by now.

The rate of metaphysical isometric transition is estimated to be 172m8/72Hf. It's the most fundamental law of physics—that energy cannot be destroyed, only transformed...

She can't be...

_Everything_ he planned and sacrificed for—his LIFE'S WORK—hinges on seeing her ghost in that mirror. He is a genius. His theorems have to be correct.

They have to be.

They have to be...

(So still and silent he is, in the faint green light of the mirror, so caught up in thoughts of theorems, he doesn't notice when the light starts shifting on the floor in front of him. Hands pressed up against the glass.)

Finally, _finally_ , Rowan North looks up, and understands what he's seeing. Nán's ghost clings to the glass—weak, languid, pushed and pulled by an invisible ectoplasmic current...but THERE. A ghost. After all this time. Her ghost.

"Exquisite..."

North's grinning. He's more alive than Nán's ever seen. If she recognizes him, it's unclear. Dark hair swirling, all she can do is give him a mournful look...

Her presence at the barrier will start a chain reaction on the other side. This is by Rowan North's design. Soon, the invalid's belongings will be disposed of, and it will be like she never existed. No one will even wonder where she went. But Rowan will know—he'll keep her trapped in the mirror. Soon she'll be joined by legions of the dead, straining against the barrier. It'll work. His plan will work...

He watches the ghost, taking her in. He was right. His plan will work. It's like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Ghosts are real. There is an afterlife. He won't have to suffer this world for long. North is more content than he's been in a long, long time.

Suddenly, the walkie-talkie comes alive.

"Hey...hey weirdo, wake up. You're on call. Something's up with the furnace, there's smoke everywhere. I think a possum crawled in there again. Get on it."

Without taking his eyes off of Nán, the janitor responds.

"Absolutely. Right away..."

Not fazed at all, he gets up to take care of that, with a silent promise he'll be right back. He'll fix the machine.

Charge the lines.

Create the vortex.

Break the barrier.

No one can stop him now.


End file.
